


Always

by CantSpeakFae



Series: Soulmate AUs [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2019-09-20 21:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17030382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantSpeakFae/pseuds/CantSpeakFae
Summary: Ripper reaches over to him, grasping his arm until Randall finally turns to look at him. The look in his eyes is painful like he can see all the anguish he's caused him in these few months, all at once. Self-loathing crashes over him like a wave. But Ripper just pulls him closer until they're standing toe to toe."I don't give a fuck what your mum told you." He said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Or anyone else, for that matter, because that's not God's name on your arm. It's mine."Randall inhales shakily. This, at least, is one thing they can agree on. "It was always you."***Another soul-mate AU, this time with heavy angst.





	1. Chapter 1

Randall’s hands are shaking when he lifts the glass up to his mouth. He throws his head back, swallowing almost before the vodka ever touches his tongue, and grimaces at the sharp, burning sensation. It makes his body feel warm and leaves a faint but lingering taste of vanilla on his tongue and in his throat, but he still shudders in disgust. He sets the glass down and reaches for the bottle, again.

Footsteps sound out from behind him and he jumps when a hand reaches out to settle down over his, pushing the bottle back down against the table before he can take another. A wise choice, really, since he’s already past his tolerance level. But, wise or not, Randall still scowls down at the table.

“Let me see it.”

“See what?”

The hand that was keeping him from taking his next shot lifts up from the glass and moves to his face. A finger under his chin, gently tilting his head back. He tries not to look, but it’s too late. He’s already caught a glimpse of eyes like arctic ice, blue-green and frozen. His knees go a little weak.  

Those eyes shift from Randall’s face to his arm, and Ripper - yes, that’s his name. Randall doesn’t have to ask. He already knows. He could **feel** it - uses his free hand to tug at Randall’s sleeve, urging him to lift it up.

“Let me see it.” He says, again, more hopefully this time.

Randall feels his resolve crumbling and his throat tightens. It was like watching a tsunami headed for the shore and not being able to do anything but stand there and hope he’d drown quickly.

He reached for his sleeve, rolling it up, wide enough for the mark on his forearm - a name. Ripper - to be visible. He didn’t have to look, he knew it well. But his eyes do trail to Ripper’s arm, where his own mark was prominently and proudly displayed.

**Randall.**

He feels something like dread in the pit of his stomach. Something sick and unclean like he’s just swallowed a cup of oil and he thinks he might throw up. His unhappiness must have shown in his expression because the stranger, whose face had been alight with joy and surprise and wonder, sobered up considerably when he saw how terrified Randall looked.

“Hey, now…” He murmured, letting go of Randall and lifting his hands into a gesture of surrender. “‘M not going to ravage you right here, and now, Mate. Breathe.”

Randall can’t, though. He can’t breathe, because he’s just found his soul-mate. And the disappointment that he feels is crushing.

“I’m not - I’m not gay.” He says, abruptly, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“M not gay either,” Ripper said, peaceably, though he did take a step back and started rifling through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, not quite looking at Randall anymore. He places two cigarettes between his lips, lighting them both, and then hands one of them to Randall. “Name’s Ripper. And I like girls just fine too.”

Randall’s stomach turns for a new reason and he takes a drag of his cigarette and looks at his “soulmate”.

Ripper’s tall. And handsome. His face is a little scruffy and his eyes are cold, but unreasonably kind when he looks at Randall. His hair’s a little shaggy, too, and his clothes are torn up, save for the leather jacket he wears. He’s… attractive. And Randall hates himself to noticing.

For a moment, he feels bad for Ripper and wonders what he’s thinking. How he feels about getting a soulmate who clearly isn’t as overjoyed by this opportunity as he is.

“I’m Randall.” He said, after a moment. Unnecessarily so. Ripper knows that, obviously. But the air is too empty without words in it, so he says it anyway.

“So, Randall,” Ripper said, his tone still light. “What’s a place like you doing in a boy like this?”

It’s a joke. Meant to make him laugh, or at least put him at ease, but Randall doesn’t laugh.

“A friend dragged me here.” He answers, reluctantly.

“I’d like to thank that friend of yours,” Ripper said, stubbing out his cigarette into the ashtray on the table.

Randall had a few words for that friend of his, too, but they weren’t going to be half as kind.

 

* * *

 

_Randall had been five years old when his mark appeared. He’d been proud of it, even when it had been new and still stung a bit; edges still tinged pink like it had been needled into his skin. He’d just been learning to read and curled up in bed when it appeared, on his side, tapping his index finger against each letter and sounding it out to himself._

_Rrrrr._  
_Ooooh_  
_Puh._  
_Eeeeee_  
_Rrrrr_  
_Tuh._

_Rrrooopuheeeert._

_It didn’t sound quite right to his own ears and so, when he heard footsteps in the hall outside of his bedroom, he clambered out of bed and hurried out, holding his arm up and tapping his finger harder against the word, not even minding that it stung._

_It was Mama, coming back from the bathroom. She took wobbly, uneven steps. The kind of stomp-stomp-stomp that would have normally frightened him if he hadn’t been so excited._

_“Mama, look! Mama, look!” He demanded, coming to a halt in front of her and holding out his arm to her eye-level as best he could. “A word! Rrrrroooopuheeert.”_

_Mama blinked at him with eyes full of mist. Mist that could make her see into other worlds, he knew, but today she wasn’t looking ahead. She was looking right at him and at his word._

_**Rupert**. _

_And then she slapped him across the face. Hard._

_He fell to the floor with a dull “thud”, and started bawling on impact. He screamed so loud that the entire house echoed with it. But his scream wasn’t nearly as loud as Mama, shouting for his father._

_Alice scurried out of her room, first. She didn’t wait for an explanation. She grabbed Randall by his middle and hauled him off of the floor, carrying him as fast as a nine-year-old could and disappearing into her bedroom with him, making him hide under the bed like she always did when Mama was mad at him._

_Daddy came in a few minutes later. He told Alice to stay in there and not to come out until they were called._

 

* * *

 

In the bathroom, Randall retches. Down on his knees, clutching the sides of the toilet bowl, and grimacing at the taste of alcohol sliding back out and burning just as much as it had when it went in. He coughs and spits when his stomach finally seems empty and then closes his eyes until the smell gets to be too much and he flushes the toilet.

Outside the door, Ripper speaks softly to him.

“So, you’re a lightweight huh? That’s good to know.”

Randall yanks a handful of toilet paper off of the roll and uses that to wipe his mouth clean, shooting an aggravated look at the door that he knows Ripper can’t see and then holding his head in his hands. He wonders if Ripper really thinks that this is because of the vodka or if he knows, deep down, that it’s shame of having a _man_ for a soulmate.

Just thinking that makes his hands shake. Self-loathing pools up in his stomach again and threatens to send him reeling back over the toilet. He resists, weakly, squirming against the floor and then letting out a quiet sob before even realizing that he’d started crying. Tremors wracking through him, shaking his frame, making his vision blurry.

Ripper pounded on the door.

“Hey, are you okay in there?”

“Fine.” Randall rasped out, sounding far from it.

He could almost _feel_ Ripper’s deliberation before the door opened and Ripper stepped in, taking one look at the pathetic lump of drunk and sick man on the floor and settling down beside him.

“You’re not.” He disagrees.

And Randall could tell him off for trying to tell his own feelings to him… but it’d be pointless. They’re bonded now. Just like Randall can feel the worry and insecurity buzzing from Ripper - he is upset that his destined is so repulsed by the thought of it and that makes Randall feel _worse_. - Ripper can feel the anxiety and fear that makes his every nerve ending spark like live wire. And Randall regrets ever coming to this party. Regrets ever looking at him and feeling that jolt of awareness when he did.

Ripper must be able to feel that, too. But he doesn’t say anything about it.

“I can help.” He promises, instead, reaching for Randall’s arm again.

“You don’t have to,” Randall says, blinking hard. But he doesn’t move away.

Ripper pulls his sleeve up, anyway, finding the mark again. And this time, he presses the palm of his hand down against it.

And with the pressure of Ripper’s touch against his name on Randall’s skin, the calm comes.

It washes through him like the alcohol, but it doesn’t burn or hurt. It’s a tingling, pleasant buzzing sensation that leaves him feeling both sick and grateful. And for a minute… he lets it happen. Taut muscles loosening, his stomach calming, his heartbeat slowing. Calm suffuses through his whole being. His breathing settles. He'd heard about this; the shared feeling between soulmates, and how calming their touch was. It'd sounded like a dream to someone as anxious as he was. A dream and a nightmare; to be soothed by the very thing that scared him in the first place.

“Randall?”  
  
Ripper doesn’t move his hand away and his name sounds natural on his tongue. Randall wants to hate that, but he can’t. Not while Ripper’s hand is on him, sending borrowed calm through him.

“Hm?”

“...I’m sorry I’m not what you wanted.”

Randall doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing at all. And Ripper doesn’t say anything else, either.

 

* * *

 

_Randall was in Alice’s bedroom for a long time before Daddy came back and said they could come out. He said it was “family meeting” time and took them down the living room, where Mama was laying on the couch. Randall’s cheek was still red and he kept his distance from her, wary this time._

_“Mama’s sorry she hit you, Randall,” Dad said, apologizing on behalf of his wife as he often did. “She didn’t mean to hurt you. But… she did because what you showed her was very bad. Do you know why?”_

_Randall shook his head, feeling very small inside._

_“The name on your arm is a boy’s name. And boys aren’t supposed to like boys, remember? We’ve talked about that, before, about how God made man and woman to love each other, not man and man or woman and woman, because they can’t make babies together, remember?”_

_Randall did remember. He didn’t know Rroohpuheertuh was a boy name._

_“But, Dad,” Alice said, speaking up suddenly. “You said marks are how God shows us who has the other half of our soul. If God doesn’t want boys to love boys, how come he put a boy name on Randall’s arm?”_

_“It’s a punishment,” Mama said, before Dad could say anything else. “He’s full of evil. God is saying that he’s doomed to burn in hell.”_

_“Lia -”_

_Randall burst into tears._

 

* * *

 

“...Don’t do it again.” Randall says, when they’ve pulled themselves off of the floor, pulling his sleeve down over the name. Hiding it, again.

Ripper’s mouth sets into a tight line and Randall feels sadness pushing up and under his own skin. Sadness that’s flavoured differently than his own and doesn’t belong to him. Desperation loosens his tongue. No matter what he thinks, no matter what he feels, and no matter what he personally deserves… Ripper doesn’t deserve to share in his pain and he tries to console him.

“I… I don’t deserve it, is all.” He says, looking away from him. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

To his surprise, Ripper laughs.

“That’s the oldest break up line in the book.”

“I mean it.”

Randall thinks he might cry again. Ripper must sense it or must at least be uncomfortable enough with the topic, because he changes it.

“Well, then…” He says, slowly. “It was nice to meet you.”

He starts to walk away.

Randall watches him go and the ache that tears through his body is so sharp and so painful that he thinks he might actually die. Ripper stumbles, too, as though he feels it and he looks back so sharply that Randall thinks he must have assumed that he’d just been _shot_ for all the pain that they’d shared.

They stare at each other. Seconds tick by slowly.

“...We could try being friends.” Randall says, because he’s too drunk and too stupid to think of anything else to say.

“Friends?”

“Yeah. If...if you want.”

Randall curses himself. Why the fuck would he want that? He’s sure Ripper has loads of friends and he knows that “friend” wasn’t what he was looking for when he found the person whose name matched his mark. What a piss poor alternative he’s offering. What should be a deep connection, a deep… love is being substituted for something platonic and guilt-ridden.

He’d hate himself if he was Ripper.

Actually, he hates himself now.

“...Okay, yeah.” Ripper says, surprising him. “Friends.”

 

* * *

 

_They slap a bandaid over the name on his arm, and tell him not to show it to anyone else, ever. And Mama tells him to pray hard, that night, that God forgives his wicked soul and make him deserving of a proper love._

_He sobs all that night, tossing and turning in bed, feeling colder than any child ever should, praying hard and loud that God take the name back and send him a new one. He promises to be good - promises to be_ **_better_ ** _. Says he’ll do anything, trade anything, be anything if it keeps him from going to hell. His stomach hurts. His heart hurts. His head hurts._

 

_And if this is what love is supposed to feel like, then he’s scared._


	2. Chapter 2

 

Randall's angry, but he's also too soused to do anything about it, so he just tilts his head to scowl down at the table and absently shreds a napkin into confetti in his grasp and then picks up his glass and drains the remainder of the amber liquid inside of it. 

It burns on the way down like he's swallowing fire, and he grimaces at the taste. A lot more hard liquor has been introduced into his diet since he started hanging around Ripper. Being near him makes Randall's tongue taste like ash, makes his limbs feel too heavy for his body, and so he always just orders whatever Ripper does and wonders if he _knows_ Randall is too frazzled to think for himself or if he thinks that they just have that in common. He sets his glass back down against the table and sinks back into the booth and tries to close his eyes and pretend that he's completely at ease. And for a second, maybe he  _is_ completely at ease. Until Ripper's whooping laughter startles him upright again. 

He's at the billiards table, again. He always goes there, first.

Ripper doesn't look over when Randall stares at him, but he knows that Ripper must feel his gaze like a physical caress. Or maybe he's just hoping he does - hoping that Ripper gets the same, tingling sensation that Randall does whenever he's the one being oggled at. But Ripper doesn't look back and he doesn't look back because he's too focused with the matter at hand. The matter being a tall, lithe little brunette with sparkling eyes and an infectious laugh who's pressing back against him and holding the cue too loose so that Ripper has to lean further over her and correct her grip. Showing her how to play. And that irrational anger stabs through him, again, twisting in his guts. He knows better. He  _fucking knows better_ , but he can't stop the way his upper lip curls back over his teeth or the way that his fingers tighten on the glass in his hands.

He was the one who asked to be friends. It was his big, stupid mouth that got him into this mess in the first place. Can't fully accept Ripper, but can't let go of him either so now every night they do this dance to a tune that you'd likely hear in some hellish purgatory, forever destined to pretend that being friends is enough for them both and that it's not killing him to watch Ripper woo the girls with his charming grin and mischief bright eyes.

Randall's suddenly aware that he might've had one drink too many. His stomach churns with something besides his self-loathing and he lurches up. Too dizzy. He sits back down and shudders. S'wonder how he's managed to spend so much time fixating on Ripper and hating this with so much clarity when his legs are made of rubber and his head is full of cotton. Leave it to his bloke to find a way to defy the laws of everything, including intoxication. He almost laughs at the thought, but lets out a shaking, sad sigh instead. 

"Hey," Someone says, an unfamiliar hand reaching out to him. Randall has to tilt his head back to lift his gaze enough to see the stranger's face looming over him. Someone who'd been sitting nearby. He's smiling at him sympathetically. "You need help? I could phone you a cab or -" 

"I've got him." 

Ripper is suddenly there, not-so-subtly shouldering the other bloke out of the way. He reaches down, lifting Randall to his feet like he weighs nothing and nudging him to put his arm around Ripper's shoulders so that he can carry most of his weight and keep him on his feet. As it is, Randall's swaying dangerously and his knees feel as wobbly as jello. 

The other man lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender at the brusque tone of Ripper's voice and steps back, returning to his own table. Ripper watches him go before he turns to look at Randall, his expression softening. Randall hates that and has to resist the urge to snap at him for it. 

"Y'alright?" Ripper asks, his voice gravelly and hoarse from all the laughing and shouting he'd been doing. It's another thing to blame himself for, tearing Ripper away from the fun to have to lug his drunken arse around. 

"Fine." For a moment, Randall can't see. Darkness swallowed him whole and he blinks. Once, twice, three times... then he can see again and they're standing outside. Ripper has him propped up against the wall, using his free hand to dial for a cab. "I'm fine." 

"You're really not," Ripper says, his voice edged somewhere between amusement and irritation.

Randall wonders what he's been saying between the bar and now. If he'd been speaking at all. Ripper's being honest about him not being fine, at least. He can feel that, all the way to his bones. But he has to argue for the sake of argument, as both a drunk and a people pleaser. 

"'M fine. You can go back inside, I'll get home on my own." 

"Quit being stupid, Randall. You're too smart for that. I'm taking you home." 

"Friends might miss you," He slurs and wonders if the accusation in his tone is as loud to Ripper as it is to him. 

"Haven't got any friends in there. He's out here, wiggling around like one of those inflatable sales bastards." 

Randall laughs. It's a sound as sharp and jagged as glass and he imagines that his throat is bleeding, now. He reaches for Ripper, then, trembling hands moving awkwardly to try and push back Ripper's sleeve. He doesn't seem to get what Randall wants, at first, but when it clicks he pulls back and gently rolls it up so Randall can see -  _see_ where his name is permanently marked on Ripper's skin. And Randall touches it without thinking, cold fingertips feeling for the looping calligraphy. Ripper lets out a shuddering sigh, now. 

This is all Randall has. All he can ever offer him. A little bit of peace in the middle of the shitstorm that is their lives, now.

"Randy?" 

Randall doesn't stop touching the mark, but his movements still and he looks up at him. Eyes still hazy and unfocused. It's lke he's looking at three of them, and they all look unhappy, even under the calm created by the mark. He doesn't answer, so Ripper tries again.

"Randall." 

"Mm?" 

Ripper leans in as though he might kiss him... but, thankfully, thinks better of it at the last second and just pulls his arm away. 

"Cab's here." He says, finally.

Randall nods and closes his eyes. 

And when he opens them, again, he's lying in bed with Ripper snoring softly beside him.

 

* * *

 

 

_"Mama's sick," Alice tells him, one day when she's taking a warm washcloth to his face. Wiping away the blood that smeared down over his lips and chin when Mama smacked him so hard that his nose started to bleed. "There's something wrong with her - but that doesn't make this okay. Just because she doesn't know how to control her actions, doesn't mean you deserve it."_

_Alice is the only voice of reason in his life. But Randall's taking fewer and fewer of her lessons to heart, these days. He's nine-years-old, now, and the name on his arm is still a boy's name. He's learned to pronounce it - Rupert - and has traced the lines of the letters so many times that he could do it without looking, now. Every day he prays for it to change. Every day he hopes that God will see that he's trying so hard to be a good boy and that he will have mercy and give him a proper soulmate. And when that happens, Mama won't hate him so much._

_"I'm sick too," Randall says, out loud, kicking his feet and letting his heels fall back against the cabinet with a thud-thud-thud. It hurts, but it's a good distraction from the pain of Alice brushing the cloth over his bruised nose. "That's what Mama always says. That's why I got a boy's name."_

_"Mama doesn't know what she's talking about, Randall."_

_Alice is thirteen-years-old and infinitely wiser, so he can't help but listen when her tone grows reproachful like that, as much as he doesn't want to._

_"I don't think there's any such thing as God," Alice says, and Randall widens his eyes at her blasphemy. "And even if there was, the God they tell us about is supposed to forgive and love us. He doesn't condemn us. Especially not when we've done nothing wrong. And especially not for love."_

_"Am I clean, now?"_

_Randall doesn't want to sit there. Doesn't want to talk about it. He just wants to go to his room and lie down. His head hurts, his nose hurts, his_ **_heart_  ** _hurts._

_"Yeah, I think I got it all." Alice relents._

_Randall jumps off of the counter and pushes past her. He gets as far as the door before he catches him, grabbing his wrist and stopping him in his tracks. He looks back at her, annoyed and confused._

_"You're not sick, Randall. You know that, right?"_

_Randall just tugs his arm away and keeps going._

* * *

 

 

Randall's been doing all of his praying at an altar of porcelain, lately. He's there first thing in the morning, having lurched out of bed and bolted toward the loo before he'd even been awake enough to realize that he was going and now he feels absolutely disgusting with sweat cooling to his face, his dark hair plastered to his head, and his tongue tasting foul. He retches and spits one last time, sitting there until it seems like his stomach seems to have settled enough for him to stand up and bend over the sink. He knocks over the cup that contains his and Ripper's toothbrushes - he doesn't remember when Ripper started keeping a toothbrush here, only knows that it was necessary with as often as he started crashing here - and fumbles with the toothpaste. He gets fed up trying to keep it neatly dispersed on the bristles with his shaking hands, so he just squeezes a glob directly into his mouth and then valiantly tries to scrub away all traces of having ever been sick. 

He still looks like hell when he finally comes stumbling out of the bathroom. He can see it in the sympathy of Ripper's expression and he grimaces.

"Morning." 

"How're you feeling?" Ripper asks, sitting up on the bed. His hair is matted from sleep and his eyes are a little glossy, but he looks like a fucking model compared to how Randall looks and feeling right now. Even so, he still just shrugs. 

"Been worse." 

"Yeah, been there with you when you have." 

Has he? Randall turns his gaze away. He supposes that true. Their tentative... friendship has spanned a few months. They're no closer than they were when they met at that party, but they seem to know more about each other. As much as you can know about someone without ever really bonding with them. But it's still weird to think that Ripper's been present for his lows. Even weirder that he's never really had a "high" around him. 

He sits on the edge of the bed. His hands are still shaking and cold. 

"You should lie down, again," Ripper tells him, pulling back the blankets and inviting Randall to come back under the duvet. To lie down with him, curled up in his warmth and accepting his comfort like he had last night. But this is different, now. The sun is up and Randall's sober, if somewhat hungover. And he knows that if he gives in and lies down with him... well, then he might crumble. And he needs his resolve. It's the only thing he has left to hold onto. 

"Got things to do," He says, instead.

"I can help." 

Randall doesn't look over at him. He knows that Ripper's being sincere when he offers things, like that. That he's trying to be a  _friend_ , but the underlying devotion that he can't control or contain makes Randall want to rip his hair out. It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair. He clenches his teeth and swallows hard before he shakes his head. 

"Nah," He says, trying to keep his tone light. "It's nothing I need help with. Just boring stuff. Cleaning house and the like."

"You look like you're going to keel over. 'M not going to piss off." 

Ripper folds his arms over his chest, looking resolute in his decision. But, Randall knows that's not true. He knows that, if he wanted to, he could push Ripper out. Could push him away. If he said go, then Ripper would go. He'd be hurt, but he wouldn't argue. That's not a power he feels happy about having. If anything, it makes him feel lonelier. Facing down the one person who was - according to every zealot in the world - meant to love him and thinking about how easy it'd be to shove him out and lock the door behind him? It hurts. 

Everything hurts. 

"You don't have to leave if you don't want to," Randall says, finally. "Just saying that I might not be very good company." 

He's never ever good company. He knows that. Knows what it's like having to sit around him while he mopes and whines and hates himself for moping and whining. 

But Ripper just shrugs and grins, patting the mattress next to him. 

"What're friends for?" 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_He's silent all the way through Alice's funeral. Doesn't talk, doesn't hum, doesn't whistle, doesn't even sob. He cries, of course, but he does it silently and with a blank expression on his face like he's not even fully aware that he's doing it. He watches as they lower her casket into the ground and mouths a prayer without really speaking it because his throat is swollen shut with anguish._

_They still haven't found the driver that rammed into the side of their car and took Alice away from him. Randall wonders where they are. What they're doing, what they're thinking. If they're pacing in fear of being discovered or if they've already put it behind them and forgotten about it. If they know that they killed a seventeen-year-old girl or if they'll never find out the devastation they brought._

_He sits and stares at nothing and thinks about this until his hands shake with rage. Someone finds him, then, gently taking his clenched fists into their grasp and squeezing back to soothe him. He looks up and sees his mother. Lia is frazzled by the day, shaken with anguish, but she holds him now and that has to mean_ **_something_ ** _, right?_

_"This is a lesson," She tells him, still holding his hands in her own. "Alice strayed away from the light of God. And look what's happened."_

_Randall just stares at her. Torn between disbelief that **now** is the time that she's decided to tell him that and anger that there's any God looming over them that could kill Alice just for losing her faith._

_"Both of my children are cursed," Lia continues, not really looking at Randall as she speaks. "Hell will take them both."_

_She starts to cry, then, sitting there and shrieking with her hands squeezing Randall's so hard that her nails draw blood. But he doesn't move and he doesn't speak even when someone rushes over to peel her off of him. Just stares and wonders why it wasn't him, instead._

 

* * *

 

 

Randall does fall back asleep, against his better judgment, with Ripper's arm wrapped around him and his chest pressed against his back. But he's alone when he wakes up and at that moment between sleep and wake, he panics. But then his better sense comes flood back and he sinks back down against the mattress from where he's suddenly lurched upright and rubs at his eyes to try and clear his blurry gaze. His headache isn't much better and he's got heartburn, probably from the reflux. There's some commotion out in the living room and he shoves himself out of bed, again, staggering through the cold to peek out into the main part of the flat. 

Ripper's leaning over his sink, same way he'd been leaning over that girl, 'cept now he's got on a pair of yellow rubber gloves and is scrubbing furiously at the scalded pot that Randall had left to soak after he'd forgotten about whatever he'd been cooking in there. The sight is so startling and so  _strange_ that Randall actually bursts into laughter and rubs at his eyes again to see if they're just playing tricks on him. 

Nope. That's Ripper, alright, turning around to look at him with a cocked eyebrow and gloved hands pressed to his hips, now. 

"What's so funny, hm?" 

"You're cleaning," Randall says, stating the obvious. 

"Well spotted." 

Ripper turns off the sink and peels off the gloves, flashing a grin to erase whatever sting his words might've carried. If they carried any. Ripper never really sounds angry when he talks to Randall, though he can't imagine that he's not angry. He must be, even just a little, must be furious to know that of every potential love in the world, he got stuck with the one with more baggage than an airport. 

"You said you needed to get some cleaning done, didn't you? Housework?" Ripper asks, when Randall doesn't say anything else. 

"Yeah," He hums, nodding. He needs coffee. He stumbles to the machine. "But I didn't think you'd actually do it."

"Didn't think it'd kill me to lend a hand. You needed the rest, anyway." 

Randall closes his eyes and sways, slightly, as the usual wave of conflicted emotions suddenly crashes over him, again. Threatening to drown him. Threatening to beat him into a pulp. He deserves it. Should get the shite kicked out of him. Because there's Ripper, wearing yellow rubber gloves and doing his dishes and smiling fondly at him, telling him that it's fine - that he did them because Randall needed to  _sleep_... 

And here he is, both loving and hating him for it. Both wanting to cross the room and kiss him hard and wanting to stay the hell away from him. He's sick and conflicted. He should to church. Or have the decency to tell Ripper to fuck off and out of his life, find someone else to pass the time with because Randall is never going to be what he needs. He doesn't say any of that, though. He just nods. 

"Thanks." 

That's all he says.   
  


* * *

 

_The name on his arm changes._

_He can feel it when it does. It stings and tingles just like it did when it first appeared and sixteen-year-old Randall yanks his sleeve up and watches the letters distort with wonder and fear. ' **Is this it?** ' He wonders to himself, hardly daring to hope but unsure as to what else it could possibly mean. ' **Is this the end? Am I finally good enough?** ' The edges of his mark bleed black like ink and he wipes it away with his thumb. He won't look away - he won't risk missing this and he won't risk the idea that he's just hallucinating and the second he looks back it'll be just as it was. He can't go through that. He -_

_It stops._

_The letters are different. He mouths them as he reads._

_R- I - P - P - E - R._

_Ripper._

_That confuses him. He doesn't feel relief or anguish, he's just fucking perplexed. Ripper, that still seems like a male name. But more like a puppy than a human. What happened to "Rupert"? He feels a stab of panic, and that catches him off guard. He's spent his entire life resent "Rupert", hating the man he didn't know for being the name on his arm. But, at the same time, Rupert'd been his only constant. The only thing that grounded him and never changed that was he was, one day, going to meet that man. Does this mean something happened to him? Does this mean -_

_He doesn't even have the right questions to convey his confusion. Just stares until he can't stare anymore and pulls his sleeve back down. The only thing he is sure about is that he can't show this to his mother. Not now, not ever. Whatever the meaning of this is... he doesn't want to know. If he doesn't know, it can't hurt him, right?_

_He goes back to his homework and tries not to think about it, again._

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Randall doesn't kick him out. Randall never does any of the things that he ought to be doing and he hates himself for it, but the flat is so much brighter when Ripper is around. The sun seems warmer and the air isn't as heavy. And it's selfish, but he wants him just as much as he doesn't want to. 

Ripper doesn't seem to mind. Or, if he does, he keeps it to himself. Just moves from room to room, tidying up the whirlwind of mess that Randall's been leaving as he shifts from manic phase to manic phase while Randall sits on the couch with a cup of tea tucked between his legs, pretending to watch some shit show on the crap telly, and "resting off the hangover" as Ripper tells him too. Not getting up no matter how much he wants to, because Ripper's there in a flash, almost before he's even thought to move, and giving him a look that tells him, clear as day, that he's not getting up save to use the bathroom. Everything else, Ripper intends to do for him. And it's as sweet as it is sickening.

And then finally, when Randall can't take a second more of it, he turns to Ripper with something like hell storming in his dark eyes and pleads with him, "Do you want to go out somewhere?" 

_Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes._

"You want to go out?" Ripper asks, instead, the corners of his mouth twitching in a way that tells Randall that he read his frantic, unspoken desire loud and clear. "Already? With the headache that's pounding between your ears?" 

"It only hurts when people remind me of it," Randall counters, reaching over to set his tea on the table. "I just... I can't stay here, all day, watching you try and fix my mess. If you're so keen on hovering, why don't we go out at least?" 

Ripper raises his eyebrows at that and crosses the room away from the books he'd been sorting, dropping down onto the couch beside him. He tilts his head back, resting it against the cushions, but not so far back that Randall can't see the way the corners of his mouth twitch downward. He's unhappy about something that Randall said, or something that he did, or maybe the whole situation in general. And this is it, Randall thinks. The moment when Ripper finally tells him to shove it, that he's done playing this horrible game, and that he'd rather be out getting his end way with beautiful strangers than stuck here cleaning up after his messed up soulmate.  

“Where'd you want to go?” Ripper asks, instead. 

Randall's heart drops into his stomach. He's giving in. God, he doesn't deserve this. Doesn't deserve anyone this patient, or this kind, or this wanting of him. He deserves someone that'll scream at him. That'll tell him how fucking awful he is. 

Randall shrugs and starts to push the lap blanket off, only for Ripper to toss it right back over him. Fucking hell. "I don't know. Uh, I haven't been to church in a while. I should actually probably go there. And you could uh, go somewhere less extremely boring if you wanted." 

He's offering him an out, again. Telling him to run and be free. Or maybe he's aiming at not giving Ripper a fucking choice about running like hell in the opposite direction because he can't imagine a world where Ripper wants to come  _with_ him to pray away this awful situation. 

Ripper tilts his head back further. Maybe trying to hide the look on his face or in his eyes. "S'not even Sunday." 

"Doesn't have to be Sunday to go to a church." 

There's an uneasy knot in his stomach and his throat feels tight. It makes his words garbled.

"Alright. I'll take you to church, then." 

"You don't have to -"

"Get your shoes on, mate." 

Randall looks up when Ripper suddenly pushes himself to his feet, and his heart is in his throat. He doesn't actually want to go, he realizes, only as Ripper is starting to look for his boots where he'd kicked them off the night before. He doesn't want to go with  _Ripper._ By himself, he could endure. He could sit there and pray or confess his entire life to somebody in the hopes that they would look at him and see what a horrible sinner he is, and give him a punishment to endure. Someone to tell him how wrong he is for both loving and hating the man who's shuffling about, now, looking for Randall's shoes too since Randall hasn't gotten up off the of the fucking couch, yet. But he can't do that if Ripper is hovering nearby, if Ripper is listening in, if Ripper is staring down the holy man who's telling him how wrong he is for wanting this. Wanting him - wanting Ripper hovering over him instead of right beside, his fingers exploring every inch of Randall's body. Claiming him or reclaiming him, he's not sure which. Stealing him back from the God that doesn't want him and burning all of the sins away with the fire that Randall feels coiled low in his belly when he thinks thoughts like this. 

He feels dirty and disgusting and he wants to kiss him. He wants to grab Ripper by the collar of his jacket, pull him down onto the couch, and beg him to make it better. To feel him inside, stronger and more real and more  _visceral_ than the guilt of the holy spirit.

He doesn't. 

He just takes his shoes when they're handed out to him and stares past Ripper. At nothing and at everything. And he thinks it's a damn good thing that they can't read each other's minds because that's the only thing that's sparing the blush from Randall's face. 

* * *

Randall's church is nearby, so they walk instead of calling for a cab. The air outside is bitingly cold but cooling to his overheated skin and the blood that boils just below the surface. His desperation for some kind of carnal comfort hasn't eased back at all but it gets more manageable with every step and he wrestles with his own mind, trying to gain control over the thoughts that are still plaguing him. He wonders if Ripper notices. If he does, he doesn't say so. 

"S'cold." Ripper says, instead, walking closer to Randall. Unconsciously seeking to shield him from the biting wind. 

"I don't mind it," Randall says, taking a step back. They're like magnets, only he keeps flipping the opposite end. Pushing away instead of pulling closer. He runs his fingers through his dark hair and casts another glance at Ripper. "Are you sure you want to come with me?" 

"Bit late to go back." 

That's a yes. And Randall wonders if maybe this is the punishment. This is how Ripper is going to handle it. Sure, he'll let Randall pout about and he let him try to pray it away... but he won't let him do it alone. He'll make him stare down the face of the man that he's trying to get rid of.  Make him feel guilty. Well, the joke's on him if that's the case. Randall always feels guilty, anyway. He doesn't need help to hate his thoughts.   
  
"There's a pub on the way. You could stop in and I'll swing by after." 

"No." 

That's as clear as day. Randall can't push him to think otherwise. Or, at least, he shouldn't be trying to push him to think otherwise. But he opens his mouth to do it, anyway. To tell him that he doesn't want him there. But he doesn't get the chance, because as soon as he opens his mouth, a body crashes into his from behind. He stumbles forward, nearly falling, but Ripper is already there, his arms already around him, and his fingers digging so hard into Randall that he's sure to leave bruises. All to keep him from falling. They both turn around and stare down the frantic, foaming man that's shaking a sign at them. 

"REPENT!" He bellows, taking a step closer to them. 

Ripper moves fast, stepping between the man and Randall, staring him down dispassionately, with the same mild disgust that he might a stray, sick cat that's rubbing at his ankles. And the man holds up his crudely made sign, again, glued on pictures of fire and large letters preaching about sinners and hell. 

"Move along, mate," Ripper says, his voice quiet but cold. "Piss off, yeah?" 

"REPENT," The man bellows, again, and he looks past Ripper, and at Randall. His gaze trails to the cross that Randall always wears around his neck - the cross that once belonged to Alice - and he tries to move forward, past Ripper. "You. You're at war. You wear the armor of God while consorting with the devil. But loving in name alone will not be enough to save you, boy. REPENT. Cast the sin from the flesh!" 

He rips back his sleeve, then, and shows his mark. Only the edges of the name that had been there still remain underneath mutilated flesh and long since healed scars. Randall takes a step back, but he can't stop looking. He took his mark off. He cut it off. Why? Did he have a man's name on his skin too?

"Randall." 

Ripper's suddenly turning to him, grabbing him by his hand. Their fingers lace together and it feels both like comfort and like the chains that are going to bind him and drag him to hell at the end of all of this. 

"Come on. Come on, mate. Let's go, Randy, yeah? Keep walking, don't fucking look at him." 

Ripper's voice is somehow both desperate and commanding. Begging him to keep moving while simultaneously not giving him much of a choice about it. And he stumbles, dragged by Ripper. But the shouting behind them continues and it echoes in his head.  _Cast the sin from the flesh_. 

He'd never been desperate enough to consider that. And he feels cold inside, but it has nothing to do with the wind. 

* * *

 

They don't go to church. They're both unsettled enough to decide that without actually speaking to each other. They stop at a chip shop for a silent lunch and then loop back around to Randall's place. Still not talking and not even looking at each other, much. Ripper goes to use the loo and Randall stumbles to his couch, again, sitting in the corner and curling into himself. Trying so hard to become nothing. To just disappear. 

Ripper comes back out a few minutes later and sees him there. 

"Randall..." 

"I can't do this." 

"Randall, listen... that man out there has lost his mind." 

"I feel like I'm losing mine," Randall says, interrupting him again. "I feel like all the sense is running away and there's nothing but these dizzying circles. I'm so tired. Aren't you tired too?" 

"...Yeah." Ripper says, ducking his head down. 

That feels like a punch in the stomach but it also feels like salvation and he's not sure how to handle any more of these dizzying, complicated feelings.

"It has to stop. We can't keep doing this. It's not fair. Not to you, not to me. Not to anyone." 

"...It's going to get better," Ripper says, still staring too intently at his shoes. "

"You don't know that." 

"Yeah, I do." Ripper snaps, looking back up. There's a determined fire in his eyes and Randall loves him. Randall loves him so fucking much that it hurts. "I do know. I know because it has to. Because that's the only thing that makes sense. It only makes sense to be with you, Randall. Whether we're friends or lovers or what the fuck else. It has to get better, it has to get easier because I can't just walk away and pretend I never met you. I can't settle." 

"This is fucked," Randall mutters, under his breath, not looking at Ripper anymore. "One person in all the world. What a fucking joke. What sadist thought of that? Only giving people one person to love in their whole lives? You deserve someone so much better than me. I can't... I can't love you. I've known that my whole life! That this is wrong. That I can't... Mamma told me the first day that your name was on my arm that I'm cursed. I'm going to hell and I can't force you down with me. Please don't let me do this to you too. It's wrong. I'm wrong. God fucking cursed me. I've known that. I know that. I..." 

Ripper suddenly crosses the room, fury in his expression, and Randall turns away from him. If Ripper's going to kick his ass, well then he deserves it. He's not going to fight it or look at him or even ask him not to.

Ripper reaches over to him, grasping his arm until Randall finally turns to look at him. The look in his eyes is painful like he can see all the anguish he's caused him in these few months, all at once. Self-loathing crashes over him like a wave. But Ripper just pulls him closer until they're standing toe to toe.

"I don't give a fuck what your mum told you." He said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Or anyone else, for that matter, because that's not God's name on your arm. It's mine."

Randall inhales shakily. This, at least, is one thing they can agree on. "It was always you."

Fucking marks. Fucking God. Fucking Ripper and his angry eyes but gentle hands. Fuck the mark on his arm for doing this to them, fuck the church for twisting up his insides, fuck his parents for feeding him spoonfuls of self-loathing until he was big enough to down it all by himself, on his own, and without being asked. And most of all, fuck him. Fuck his twisted mind and his twisted gut and his warring heart. Because no one's a bigger monster in this than him, for hurting someone so innocent in all of this. Ripper deserves a soul mate who can love him fearlessly. 

"Randall..." 

Ripper's thumb is suddenly swiping under his eye.

"You're crying. Why are you crying? Tell me how to fix it, pet. Please. I want to fix it for you." 

He can't, though. No one can fix this. Damage runs too deep. Ripper's name on his arm is untouched, as perfect now as it was when it first appeared. Never fading and never changing since the day that Ripper took a new name. It's Randall who feels mutilated and like he's a patchwork of old scars and old pain. Cast the sin from the flesh. He is the sin and the flesh. 

Ripper can't coax an answer from him. But it doesn't matter, because Ripper just takes his hand, again, and leads him back to the bedroom. 

It's dimly lit. The bedspread is still rumpled from them sleeping the night before. It's not late enough to go to bed, now, is it? He's lost all track of time and space. Nothing feels real to him, anymore. But Ripper pushes him to lie down and he does without complaint. And Ripper moves to curl up with him, his fingers starting to seek out that space on Randall's arm. Randall holds his breath. He knows... yes, he knows that if Ripper touches him there, then everything will fade to black. The terrible, screeching noises of the loss of control in his head will cease and he'll only know the tranquility of having him so close... but he can't let him. He doesn't deserve it. So, he tugs his arm away. 

"No." He says, shaking his head. 

"Randall... love..." 

"No." 

His voice is sharper and Ripper pulls his hand away. Randall's own hand follows after, seeking out Ripper's mark. And, for a second, he expects Ripper to retaliate. To tell him that fair is fair and that if he can't touch Randall, then Randall can't touch him. But he doesn't say that. He just lets Randall stroke his fingers against his name on Ripper's arm and suffuses him with the calm that he won't accept for himself. 

They're face to face. They can see the torment in each other's eyes. But Ripper's is fading into calm and that's all the comfort that Randall can bring himself to take in this world; knowing that Ripper isn't suffering as much as he is. It's all he has left to give. 

"...S'alright," Ripper says, finally, after the silence has stretched on too long. "S'alright, Randy. I'm sorry I pushed. I know you're not ready." 

"I might not ever be." 

"I know that too. But things... things will look better in a bit, won't they?"

Randall doesn't answer. He can't make those promises. But he does choke out another sob, in spite of himself. And Ripper's face falls. 

"Tell me how to help you, Randall. I can't fucking stand it." 

Randall doesn't know how. Doesn't know what to tell him. But Ripper sounds so earnest and so fucking desperate that Randall cries harder. He's such a baby and it hurts to lose control like this, in front of the very person that he has no right to seek comfort from.  
  
"I don't know," Randall finally answers, being as honest as he can. His voice shakes and so do his hands. "I really don't know if I can be helped." 

There's only one thing in all the world that he wants. One thing that he needs more than the air in his lungs and that's the man that's lying right next to him. He wants him, wants it all, wants to let him touch him and hold him and fuck him. Wants to let him love him - really and truly love him, and be just like any other normal couple. Completely and totally happy with who they have. But that's not a possibility. Randall can't ask that of him. Randall can't want that from him. He curls his fingers against Ripper's mark and tries to soothe a pain he hasn't even inspired yet with thoughts that he hasn't shared. Ripper makes a quiet, groaning sound and curls closer into him. He wonders if this feels as good as it does peaceful. If it's an intimate caress. He can't really remember the one time that Ripper touched his mark. He'd been so drunk and so miserable, then.

"Don't make me leave," Ripper says, finally. "Don't send me away. I think that'd break me, too, and I can't be strong for both of us if you're not letting me." 

"You shouldn't have to. You -" 

"I don't care. I want to." 

"Do you?" Randall asks, closing his eyes. "Do you want to? Why is that, Ripper? You think it's because of me or because my name is on your arm? Would you feel like you had to help me if it wasn't?" 

"...I'm not doing this because some fucking mark on my arm told me too," Ripper says, his voice low and rough. "I'm doing it because you deserve it. You deserve someone to support you instead of dragging you down and telling you how wrong you are." 

"You don't -" 

"Don't send me away, Randall," Ripper says, again. And he sounds so sad that Randall's heart hurts. "I can't bear the fucking thought. If you won't let me do it for you, then do it for me. I need that. At least." 

And if anyone owes anything, it's Randall. So, he nods. 

"I won't send you away." 

He never wanted to, anyway. That's the worst part. Knowing that he should, knowing that Ripper's only saying he doesn't want to go because he feels like he can't... and he's still agreeing to this. Because he's selfish. Because he's longing for someone who's right there in front of him, someone who's offering his whole self. How is it possible to want for something he has? Ripper's so fucking near and he'd give him anything and Randall wants to start crying all over again.

But he doesn't. 

Everything seems so impossible. Too much pain for not enough pay-off. And if he's already going to hell... what's the weight of one more sin? 

He tilts his face up toward Ripper. Close. Too close. 

"Randall?" 

"Just a little..." Randall says, his voice rough like he's been screaming. "I... I want you. Don't think that I don't. I see you and it's like everything in me sings. And I'm trying. And there's so much that hurts... but this could be... just a little that doesn't." 

He speaks too slowly, the words are hard to get out. His heart is beating so fast that he thinks he's going to pass out. 

Ripper's quiet for a second. Weighing his words, maybe. He's going to say no. He's going to reject him. And he -

He leans in. His mouth brushes against Randall's. Softly, at first, but then harder. And it's like fucking fireworks and tingling feelings and his blood runs hot in his veins. His body moves of its own accord, hand going to Ripper's hair. Tangling there, and holding him close. 

Sin of the flesh. 

And one that he can't bring himself to cast out. 

* * *

They have a silent agreement not to talk about it when it's over. When Randall's sitting up and running his fingers through his hair and wiping the saliva off of his mouth with the back of his sleeve and Ripper's trying to discreetly adjust himself in his jeans. Every cell in his body is singing and they both know that it's only because they're not talking about it, that he's able to respond so positively. It's no way to live, really. Pretending to be just friends and kissing in secret, but it's all that Randall can offer now and Ripper doesn't push. 

"You hungry?" Ripper asks, sitting up on the opposite side of the bed. 

"A bit." 

But he doesn't want to go back out. That unspoken reluctance is loud in the silence. 

"Hope you have something edible in this place, then. Or we could order in." Ripper says, reading that silence like a book, and rising to his feet. He starts to shuffle out of the room, his shirt rumpled where Randall had been holding tightly to him and his jeans noticeably bulging where his excitement hadn't quite... gone down, yet. Randall's having the same problem but trying not to think too much about it. 

"Think I've got something in the fridge." 

This conversation feels forced and fake. But it's better than baring their souls. So, he can't complain. Out loud, anyway.

"I'll see what I can find, then." 

Randall settles back, listening to the sound of Ripper rifling through the fridge. Shifting the contents like he belongs there. And in another life, one where Randall isn't so afraid, maybe he does belong there. That's not a happy thought, but it's not a sad one either, and he stares at nothing while he imagines it. A world where they're happy together. And a small voice - a teeny, tiny voice of betrayal - asks why they can't have that in this one.


	4. Chapter 4

They’re at another pub. 

Randall doesn’t like places like these. He never has, really. Too many people, too many noises, too many things to notice, to process, to be aware of. He’s always been a bigger fan of his solitude. Which is why it’s so funny that they’re here because he suggested it. 

He’s been doing that a lot lately. He assumes that this must have been the kind of life that Ripper was living before he ever ran into Randall -- assumes that he must have gone out, had fun, enjoyed himself in the days before he was ever shackled to a broken man with a twisted mind who loved him as much as he resented him. And he’s trying, desperately, to find a way to give that back to Ripper. Give him a life worth living, instead of forcing him to hide the way that Randall does. 

So, they’re at another pub. And a not entirely terrible band stands on a rickety stage, crooning old folk songs while they drink and eat and chat. Talking without ever actually saying anything at all to each other. There’s no substance, just cottony fluff and awkward questions that linger with tension because they’ve opened a door that they can’t quite close again but can’t seem to walk back through. 

“What did you do today? Anything -” Ripper starts to say, offering the question with the same significance of holding his hand out to a drowning man or a frightened animal and it occurs to Randall that he must see him as both of those things. But, before he can finish his question, an unfamiliar voice interrupts it and threatens to send their uneasy balance into a fucking tailspin. 

“Ripper?” 

A man appears, suddenly, standing next to their table. He’s tall, a brilliant smile on his face, teeth a sparkling white in contrast with his dark skin. He seems delighted to see Ripper and Ripper looks just as happy, jumping to his feet and greeting his friend with a side-hug and a roar of delight. 

“Where the fuck have you been, man? It’s been ages. Thought you’d fucked off for good this time.” 

“Nah, mate, I’ve just been -” 

Ripper stops talking, abruptly, and his eyes trail over to Randall, his delight sobering. It’s a punch in the gut for Randall to see. He’d never realized before, how beautiful Ripper’s smile is. And maybe that’s because he almost never sees it. Maybe that’s because Ripper only looks at him like he’s looking at him now, two parts caution and one-part deeply settled misery. 

“ - hanging around.” Ripper finishes, finally, and he grins again. “Randy, this is Philip. I used to hang around his lot. Phil, this is Randall. I hang around his lot, now.” 

Philip grins down at him and Randall wishes he could return the expression, but his expression is frozen somewhere between agony and impassivity. 

“It’s nice to meet you, man. I should be thanking you, eh? Ripper got us into all sorts of trouble before he vanished. But I’m sure you know all about that.” 

Actually, he doesn’t. But he nods anyway, woodenly, like a puppet on the string because he supposes that’s the sort of thing to do. The polite thing, at least, to pretend. And somehow he gets his lips to form words that he didn’t think he had it in him to say. 

“I always suspected he was some sort of hellion before we met. But he swore that he was an angel.” 

It’s the right thing to say. Philip roars with laughter and Ripper grins again. 

“You want to sit down for a minute, mate?” Ripper asks, looking at Philip. 

“Well, I don’t want to intrude -” 

“It’s fine,” Randall says, quickly, and he starts to stand before he’s even really aware of what he’s doing. “I’ve just got to the loo. I’ll be right back.” 

He slips past both of them before they can say anything, only glancing back to make sure that Philip is sitting. And then he pushes through the crowd, hunting through the bathroom. 

***

Randall’s being going to confession a lot lately. In between trips to pubs and parks, and wherever else he can think to take Ripper. And he knows that Ripper doesn’t like that; he can see it in the angry line that Ripper’s mouth is set out before he leaves and can feel it in the jagged edges to the way that he kisses him, later, when they’re in bed and falling back into their quiet and secret ritual between the sheets. Ripper sweeps his tongue through Randall’s mouth like he’s trying to remove the sour taste of confessed sins and replace it with himself. But it doesn’t work well enough and Randall always goes back. 

He wants to go now. Standing in an empty pub bathroom and staring into the mirror. He doesn’t recognize himself in his reflection. Those eyes are too wild and too agonized to be his own. His skin is too gaunt, his expression too miserable. And he wants to run, to the nearest church, like a naughty child who’s broken a vase and is waiting to be scolded. 

 He turns on the sink and cups his hands under the spray, splashing his face with cool water and then blindly reaching for a paper towel to wipe it away. It doesn’t change his expression and he doesn’t feel better. He turns the water back off and grips at the edges of the sink with both hands, staring down instead of at himself, now. 

He can do this. He has to do this. Go back out there, sit with them, and talk. Pretend that everything is fine. 

Someone knocks at the door, just once, and then it opens. He doesn’t have to look to know that it’s Ripper and wonders, in passing, how long he’s been hiding in here if Ripper’s come looking for him. 

“Are you okay?” Ripper asks, softly, keeping his distance. “I felt…” 

Ah. Right. 

“I’m fine.” Randall lies, looking over at him. “Sorry. Think I’m just a bit more drunk than I thought. Head’s swimming.” 

“Oh. Do y’want to go…?” 

He sounds disappointed. He doesn’t want to go. He wants to be out there, talking with his friend, talking to anyone that isn’t going to shove icy daggers into his heart with every automatic recoil from his touch and every awkward, tense silence that follows a question that shouldn’t have been asked. 

“No,” Randall says, shaking his head. “I don’t want…” 

The world tilts sideways. He staggers, his shoulder hitting the wall, hard, and the pain explodes in front of his eyes in a vision of red. He swears, loudly, and swings without even really thinking about it. His fist comes in contact with the mirror that he was staring into and it cracks. Thin, spiderwebs appearing where he hit it. 

“Jesus, Randall!” Ripper says, darting forward and yanking him back away from the mirror. “What the fuck?” 

Randall’s legs give out. He falls like a stone and Ripper moves down with him, automatically, cradling him as they both sit against the grimy ground, still looking down at him like he’s never seen anything quite like him. He probably hasn’t, and that makes Randall want to laugh as much as it makes him want to cry. His heart sinks down as fast as he had, to his stomach, down to his toes. Rock bottom, all over again, because he always slides down no matter how far he climbs up.

“I can’t do this.” He whispers. He can feel how cold the tiles are, under his legs that are sprawled out and tangled with Ripper’s. Even through his jeans, he can feel them. Or maybe that cold is coming from inside of him. “I can’t. I can’t do this.” He says, again, with more vigor than before. 

Ripper holds him tighter, squeezing him. 

“Randy…” 

“No,” Randall says, shaking his head. “I can’t. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard for you, but I can’t do it. And I can’t do this to you. I -” 

It’s Ripper’s turn to interrupt. And he does with a noise that sounds like a growl. He twists Randall around, makes him look at him. 

“You can,” Ripper says. He glares, his lips twisted into a snarl and his eyes hard. “You fucking will. I know that you will. I can feel it.”

“I’m not just hurting myself with this,” Randall says. His head pounds, and he resents the look on Ripper’s face. Why is he only ever mad at him when Randall wants to let him go? Why doesn’t he want to go and find happiness instead of being brutalized by the same waves of guilt and pain that have been drowning Randall his entire life? “I’m hurting you too. Why won’t you fucking leave me?” 

“I told you not to send me away. You said that you wouldn’t.” 

“I’m not sending you away. I’m asking why the fuck you’d want to stay. Look at me!” 

Randall pushes himself up. Tries to push himself away. Tries to gesture at what a fucking mess this is, with them lying on the grimy floor of a public bathroom, snarling at each other when Ripper should be out there, with his friend, and Randall should be swallowing his poison on his own, like a good lad, instead of letting Ripper take half. 

It takes Ripper a minute to answer. He’s staring past Randall, first, like the door holds all the answers. Or like he’s considering that, himself. Maybe imagining a life where he gets up and goes and never looks back. 

“...I look at you all the time, Randall.” He says, finally, when he seems to have collected his thoughts. “I see you all the time. And you’re a fucking pain in the arse, sometimes, make no mistake. But I look at you and I know that it’s going to get better. You’re hurt, love, and I know it. And I know I can’t fix you, I know that love isn’t enough… but I can be here and I can hold your hand and I can dust you off when you fall down. And you can’t withdraw far enough to make me want to leave.” 

Randall stares at him, at the anger and the fury, at the desperation and determination that spreads out from him, that follows the path of his words. He looks… terrifying. An avenging angel with blackened wings and fire in his eyes, watching as his charge relapses, again and again, falling to the same sin without ever learning. 

“...Your friend is going to think that we died.” Randall says, hollowly, because what else is there to say? 

“Nah,” Ripper says, with a shrug. He starts to stand and pulls Randall up with him. “Might think we fucked.” 

Randall laughs, then. Not a sound tinged with hysteria, but a genuine snort of amusement. 

“He’d be half right. We are fucked.” 

“You’re fucked,” Ripper says, slinging his arm around Randall’s shoulder. “I’m just along for the ride.” 

“Yeah,” Randall says, and that’s all. 

His heart hurts a little less when he leans against Ripper, and he wonders how many more breakdowns he’ll have to endure until he’s shattered enough to collect the pieces of himself and build something new. 


	5. Chapter 5

The light that filters in through the crack in the curtains is grey and washes out all the colour that Ripper has when it falls on him. Randall doesn’t remember what woke him if the pain in his chest is from a nightmare or acid reflux from a hangover, but all that matters is that Ripper is the first thing that he saw and that, for the first time, he’s able to really appreciate just how beautiful he is. Maybe it’s because of the way that reality distorts at 5 a.m, quiet time before the sun has risen and cast its harsh light over reality, and the sound of the drizzle outside is soothing like white noise, but Randall doesn’t feel as much terror looking him over.

Maybe, somewhere along the way, the pain shifted.

That’s not to say that it went away. It just migrated within him, maybe makes Randall’s stomach stop churning like an angry sea and makes his head and heartache, instead. It’s a simpler pain, a more manageable one. Bittersweet chills instead of full-body shakes that make his teeth rattle and muscles hurt.

Ripper opens his eyes, slowly, and meets Randall’s gaze. There’s enough clarity in his eyes for Randall to realize, abruptly, that Ripper’s probably been awake for a few minutes but just lying still, letting Randall stare. And he should be embarrassed, or at least have the grace to look away, but he doesn’t.

Ripper leans in first. But it’s Randall who meets him the rest of the way and kisses him.

And for a brief moment, in the quiet sanctuary of their bedroom, Randall loves him.

The reflex shame of the action has dulled, too, no longer a dagger sticking into his gut, but more like the throb of banging his knee into a coffee table. It hurts, but only for a second. He still trembles, but he parts his lips willingly when Ripper slips his tongue into his mouth and they’re -- he’s kissing his soulmate. He’s kissing a boy and he likes it. He can taste sleep and residual mint from him brushing his teeth the night before on Ripper’s tongue can feel the heat that’s coiling in his gut. And it’s been so long since he felt anything other than shame; so long since he felt anything other than nothing that he wants to laugh and he wants to cry. All at once.

He’s conflicted.

And hard.

And that’s usually when he pulls away; when he realizes that he’s turned on. That’s when he runs to hide in his ice-cold shower and scrubs away the touch and taste of Ripper, but this time the idea of running away is more painful than the idea of staying and he breaks the kiss, but only so he can look at him, try to gauge if it’s okay.

And Ripper, with the fucking grace of God, doesn’t ask him what’s wrong or what he wants. Just manages to divine what he needs, reads his face like a picture book, and shifts underneath the nest of blankets that they’re tangled in, until he’s half leaning against Randall and half leaning over him, taking control because Randall can be kissed, and he can be touched, and maybe even be fuc - but he can’t do the kissing, do the touching. Not yet. Not completely. Not enough for any relief to be tied to the action. Maybe someday he’ll be able to make those snap decisions. But for now -- now he needs Ripper to make them.

(He knows that’s not fair, silently begging him to make the choices that Randall will resent later, that Randall wants but is too cowardly to ask for…)

And Ripper does.

His hand slides into the sweatpants that Randall had haphazardly thrown on before passing out the night before, beneath the elastic waistband of his boxers, and touches and Randall makes a soft, sharp sound like he’s fucking dying.

“Randa -” Ripper starts to say, starts to ask, but Randall kisses him again. ‘It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,’ his whole body seems to sing. ‘It’s okay, touch me. I want you to.’ And he has to let his body say it for him because his mouth can’t make those words. Not yet.

Ripper gets his hand around him, slides it up from the base to the head. And the sound that Randall makes from that feather-light touch alone is fucking embarrassing, but it’s been SO long since he felt like this. No one’s ever touched him -- he’s hardly touched himself in the last few years, the shame of his fantasies, of the imaginary men, made it impossible. But Ripper didn’t have those issues and he’s no novice. He ducks his head under the blanket, confusing Randall for a second when he stops touching, but a second later he realizes that Ripper’s just spit into his hand to wet it and he’s touching Randall again and oh god, oh fuck.

Randall closes his eyes, so he misses when Ripper pops back out from under the blankets, missing when he leans in to kiss him, but the second that his mouth brushes against Randall’s, he parts his lips again and just lets him kiss him. Tries to just be a body, to just be in HIS body, with no fear or confliction. And it’s not as difficult as he thought it would be, not when Ripper’s jerking him off with practiced, measured motions. Not when Ripper’s sweet-talking him.

And he is, Randall suddenly realizes. His pulse is pounding in his ears, drowning out most other sounds, but he hears his name on Ripper’s mouth and it pulls him in to listen to him.

“ - so good, Randall, you’re doing so good.” Ripper murmurs against his mouth, his breath hot against Randall’s lips. “So good for me, pet.”

Yes, yeah, fuck! Randall’s thoughts lose all coherency, just a mindless chorus of helpless agreement. It’s good, so good, and he, he’s going to --

He cums.

He gets off with a choked, broken noise stuck in his throat and makes a mess of himself, the blankets, and Ripper’s hand as it continues to stroke him all the way through until he collapses against the bed, lax and panting.

His first thought, when he starts to shake off the haze of cloud nine, is that he’d gotten off embarrassingly quickly.

And his second thought is that he should reciprocate, give as good as he got. It’s the least he can do for Ripper and he starts to try to force himself to move, ignoring how his bones feel like jello. But Ripper presses his clean hand down against Randall’s chest and shakes his head.

“S’alright,” He says. He brushes his lips against Randall’s once, proving his sincerity. “You don’t have to be ready for that, yet.”

Randall’s too utterly boneless to argue with that. Can’t spite himself right now. He just nods his appreciation and closes his eyes again.

“Next time…” He mumbles, feeling like he’s sinking. Either into himself or into the mattress, exhaustion seeping through him.

“If you’re ready, then,” Ripper says, sounding more like he’s placating him in the moment than he is planning on holding him to it.

And Randall wonders what he did to deserve someone this patient.

* * *

Randall wants to say, “I’m okay, now.”

He wants it to be as simple as that. He let Ripper touch him, he enjoyed Ripper touching him. The nap he had after was the best sleep he’d had in years and the shower he’d stumbled into after was warm and relaxing rather than bitterly cold to force his body to reject the feelings that he has for him. And when he’s rubbing a towel over his head, drying his hair, he wants to be able to walk out of the shower and announce that he’s all better now, all the hard stuff is over, he’s ready to love him as he deserves to be loved.

But it’s not that simple.

He’s not angry when he steps back into his - their? - bedroom, but he’s not cured. He knows that, immediately, with a stab of shame that he feels at seeing Ripper still sprawled out in bed. It’s instinctive, a reflex, but it’s there and the atmosphere is strange. Not as painful as it was, not uncomfortable exactly, but different and heavy all the same.

Randall forces the feeling back and pads over to the bed, climbing onto the mattress beside him. He settles in next to him, hair damp and skin clean, and taps Ripper on the shoulder. “Hey. The shower is open if you want.”

Ripper makes a soft, grumpy noise at him. “M’sleeping.”

“Still? It’s morning, now.”

“Tell me when it’s afternoon.”

“I’ll set the alarm.”

Randall starts to reach over to the alarm clock, but Ripper’s hand on his arm pulls him back. His eyes are open, now, and his gaze is unhappy. So unhappy that Randall’s breath catches in his throat and alarm shoots through him. Did he do something? Did he accidentally hurt him? He starts to ask, but Ripper beats him to it.

“Are you going out?”

Randall blinks. “Um. Out of the room. Thought I’d tidy up while I still have the will to.”

“You’re not leaving?”

Ripper’s voice is guarded and it takes half a second of contemplation, but Randall realizes, a beat too late, that Ripper’s asking him if he’s going to church. If he’s going to confess be cured of what they’d done that morning. There’s a knot in his chest as he looks at Ripper, as he hears the underlying desperation. It takes him a minute to answer, just breathing for a moment to loosen the tension in his chest.

“No,” He chokes out, finally, past the lump in his throat and the reminder of all the pain he causes Ripper hits him like a slap in the face. “No, I wasn’t going to leave.”

Relief is bright on Ripper’s face. And it’s so nice to see that Randall feels relieved too. Feels a little less like he’s running headlong through Ripper’s life and smashing everything he can get his hands on.

“Okay. Yeah. You can set the alarm.”

Ripper starts to settle back into the bed, but he doesn’t close his eyes. Just watches as Randall sets it for noon and then settles back against the bed. Halfway lying back down and halfway sitting up, looking toward the door. There are a pile of dishes in the sink, crumbs on the counter, and the floors could do with some sweeping.

“Can I stay with you?” Randall asks, anyway, because there’s nothing he’d really rather do than snuggle into Ripper’s side and marvel at the new home he’s starting to find there. One where things hurt a little less every day.

“...Please.” Ripper says, nodding, and he shifts against the bed to pull Randall into his arms, hold him against his body.

It feels good. It feels better than that, even. A step in the right direction or maybe the only direction that they have because neither one of them are willing to settle anymore. And maybe they never really were. Maybe there’s a future, a bright one, where things are less grey and Randall won’t feel like his heart is going to break free from his chest when Ripper touches him.

Or maybe he’ll always feel like that, but without the bitter pangs of shame in his gut. He’d like that.

He’s not fixed, yet. But he could be, someday. And he has time to get there.

He tilts his face toward Ripper’s, gentle and chaste at first… but deeper when he parts his lips and invites Ripper to taste him, groaning when he does. If they’re not careful, Randall will end up getting riled up all over again, just like he was that morning…

But Ripper is always careful with him and he pulls back before Randall can debate pushing his own limits, pressing a chaste kiss to his nose before settling his head against the pillow.

“Sleep.” He sighs, and Randall settles down next to him. “Help you tidy up the place when we wake up, okay?”

“Okay.” Randall agrees, closing his eyes and stretching his legs for the pleasant soreness before he relaxes and nuzzles a little closer to him.

No, he’s not cured. But he has time to get there. They have time. And right now, that’s all that he needs.


End file.
